Minor content warning past the jump. If you got through Dick Cheney, you can get through this.

John Updike:

A flock of crows, six or eight, raucously rasping at one another, thrashed into the top of an oak on the edge of the square of sky. The heavenly invasion made his heart race; he looked down at his prick, silently begging it not to be distracted; his mind fought skidding into crows and woods, babies and Phyllis, and his prick stared back at him with its one eye clouded by a single drop of pure seminal yearning. He felt suspended at the top of an arc. Faye leaned back on the blanket, arranging her legs in an M of receptivity, and he knelt between them like the most abject and craven supplicant who ever exposed his bare ass to the eagle eyes of a bunch of crows.

An "M of receptivity"? Jesus, that's hot. To, like, Grover on Sesame Street or something. I've had phone sex with him. The only thing that gets him off is suggestive uses of the alphabet. "I'm sticking my hand up your A, Grover!"